


Homecoming

by CorpusInvictus



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, vulcan ear porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusInvictus/pseuds/CorpusInvictus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt: "Spock has been stuck alone on some alien planet that needs a Federation representative to be present for a long, stalled-out series of negotiations. I don't want any horrible trauma, just loneliness and frustration and culture-shock. The people on this planet are as far from Vulcan as possible -- everything is everyone's business, emotions are on display everywhere, everyone wants to hug everyone else all the time, etc. There is almost no vegetarian food suitable for a Vulcan diet. And Spock misses the Enterprise. Bonus points for him realizing that somehow the ship has become like a home/family for him, because I am a sucker for stuff like that."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

The Kambrians are a race of vaguely humanoid aliens only recently discovered by Starfleet exploratory vessels. They are a highly intelligent race, having already mastered transwarp beaming technology as well as some incredible feats of massive energy production using a mineral similar to the dilithium crystals currently favored by the United Federation of Planets. They're thrilled to have made contact with other races, delighted to learn about cultures other than their own. There's a natural exuberance to the people, an openness, a willingness to wear their hearts (of which they have three) on their sleeves.

After close to six weeks of being there, Spock is going mad.

In order to ensure Kambria's full compliance with induction procedures into the Federation, it had been necessary to leave some manner of ambassador on the planet. The Kambrians had politely but firmly refused offers of some of the rookie politicians and diplomats offered to them, requesting a person of greater importance. Because of their innovative scientific discoveries, the Federation had felt compelled to comply. And as the son of an ambassador and a highly-respected officer in his own right, Spock had naturally been the best choice for the position.

But then there's the exuberance. The openness. The _touching_.

Kambrians are listed in the Starfleet archives as having two languages, one verbal and one nonverbal. Spock quickly discovers this is not technically true - that in actuality, the verbal language is interpreted through the nonverbal one. Long political debates are peppered with fingers bruising into one another's arms. Casual chatter occurs in between platonic kisses and affectionate embraces. All of them walk around with fingers interlocked with whoever happens to be walking with them, be it close family or newly introduced stranger.

Most disturbingly, one of the highest forms of flattery, respect, and gratitude is in the stroking of the ears. Spock has spent his six week tenure here trying valiantly to keep from shuddering whenever someone tweaks the point of his ear. No one touches them save one person, and the one person allowed to do so touches them for a far different purpose. Spock doesn't care to explain why he remains seated for long moments after someone expresses their gratitude this way. It's a humiliating experience to allow strangers to touch him in such a fashion when his brain associates those sensations with a feeling of love and care and yes, even lust and eroticism. It is without a doubt the most uncomfortable part about being here.

His touch-telepathy is also going haywire amongst these overly tactile people. He resigns himself to putting up with the mild migraine that develops over the first week and doesn't even bother to medicate it after the second. Nothing abates the emotions battering into him day after day, no matter how much Vulcan control he tries to assert over the barrage. Vulcans are not a tactile people, and after weeks of being here he comes to realize that humans aren't either, at least not in comparison to the Kambrians. He misses his crew, he realizes, misses their respect of his personal space and their only occasional forays into violating it. He misses not being molested on an hourly basis.

He misses many things about the Enterprise. He knows it is illogical to assign feelings to materialistic things, and yet he has done so without having realized it. He misses the atmosphere, the dry regulated temperatures, the searing heat he's programmed into his own quarters. Kambria is perpetually frigid, damp, and rainy; he's spent six weeks in a freezing, shivering, wet mess. It doesn't matter how many layers he puts on or how often he's able to find shelter from the inclement weather; he feels like a half-drowned cat, and relatedly he wishes he could hiss his displeasure at others.

It is painful to endure the departure ceremony when the day finally arrives. It takes place in one of the lush courtyards of the planet's municipal court in the middle of a torrential downpour (which, of course, the Kambrians believe to be a sign of good fortune, peace, and prosperity). Dozens of thoroughly soaked Kambrians take it upon themselves to kiss his cheeks, fondle his ears, and hug him often enough that he feels rather like an overused, overstimulated sponge. His head is so full of cloying affection and saccharine niceties that he thinks he may finally understand Jim's description of an ice cream headache. His stomach roils a little in response, and he barely manages to convey his thanks for their hospitality without whimpering or snarling at them.

Finally, _finally_ they escort him to the pre-arranged coordinates and stop touching him long enough for the transport to take effect. He sees small shining lights at the corners of his vision, and the world goes white for the long seconds it takes for him to disappear from Kambria and rematerialize on the Enterprise.

There's a pair of faces there to greet him. The Captain isn't one of them, but that's to be expected; he's likely exchanging communications with the Kambrians from the bridge, finishing up the political dithering before they can move on to their next mission. Instead he's being stared down by the Chief Medical Officer and being offered a towel by their Chief Engineer.

"You look like something the cat dragged in, sir," Scotty explains, grinning when Spock accepts the gesture, trying to wipe the worst of the rain from his face. "Thought you might need this."

"My thanks, Mister Scott," he returns, too-formal after weeks of playing the diplomat. Scotty doesn't seem to mind.

"Sick Bay," McCoy says by way of greeting. "Captain's orders. God knows what kind of diseases you picked up in your six weeks on a newly discovered planet."

He's too overstimulated, and at the same time too exhausted, to even attempt to argue the matter. He assents with a nod of his head, still trying to get the feeling of chilled moisture off of his face and out of his hair.

"I've raised the temperature in Sick Bay by ten or twenty degrees," McCoy informs him as they ride the turbolift to their destination.

He lets out a small sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching in a weak attempt at a smile. "You are unsure of the specifics?"

"I made Chapel do it. Damned temperature controls never work right when I screw around with 'em."

The twitching increases, and Spock feels a sense of relief begin to wash over him. He missed this ship, these people, the way they have begun to understand him and his half-Vulcan needs. "Thank you," he says, less formal than he was with Scotty.

McCoy rolls his eyes outrageously, which is his standard response to a compliment or expression of gratitude. Spock has come to learn that this means he's embarrassed. "Look, I just didn't want to aggravate any effects of hypothermia you might've picked up in the swamps."

"Of course," Spock agrees easily, earning another roll of the eyes.

"Just pick a biobed, Spock. And if anyone starts bitching about the godforsaken heat in here-" and it isn't that bad, maybe eighty degrees or so, which is still fairly cool by Vulcan standards, "-I'm sending them straight to you."

He's managed to repress the smile by the time McCoy returns with his medical scanner, so the snarking ceases temporarily while the doctor works. "Your body temperature's way too low. And your neurological readouts are all over the place."

"The Kambrians are an excessively tactile and affectionate people," Spock explains with only a touch of irritation in his voice.

"You take those psionic inhibitors I sent you down with?"

"They proved ineffective within the first week of my tenure."

"Which means no."

"It means I ceased taking them as soon as they were proven ineffective. It does not mean I avoided them entirely."

"We'll work on the formula again later," McCoy says, obviously distracted by his readouts if he's making such an offer without a subsequent jab at his alien telepathic abilities. "See if we can't get those migraines under control when people are screwing around with your head."

"That would be most helpful," Spock agrees, watching him curiously.

"You've also got loads of new bacteria all over the damn place. They look to be harmless, but you've lost a lot of weight since we dumped you there, so I'm not sure if they're mucking around with your digestive system or not."

"I would hardly count seven point three five pounds as a significant loss of weight over a six week period."

McCoy snorts at him. "Of course you already know the exact numbers."

Spock ignores him. "The Kambrian diet consists largely of meat and unrefined sugars, neither of which is easy for a Vulcan to digest." As a half-Vulcan he can mostly manage them, but he prefers to do so only in dire circumstances.

"So you've been starving yourself for six weeks."

"I have not eaten at the same rate that I prefer to, but I plan to remedy the situation now that I am back on the Enterprise."

McCoy seems to understand that 'back on the Enterprise' is Spock-ese for 'back home' because the long-suffering look on his face shifts to something a little less gruff. "Fair enough. Doesn't look like you need hypospray refreshers or decontaminates. I'd advise a long shower - a _sonic_ shower," he corrects with another eyeroll when Spock visibly cringes at the idea of subjecting himself to the watery kind, "and a few decent meals at the Mess."

He nods, slipping off the biobed. "Thank you, Doctor."

"And next time let's find some other ambassador's son to play Pet Starfleet Officer for the new aliens of the week. I came this close to putting Jim in a chemically induced coma. He's been driving us crazy without the First Officer to keep his ass in line."

Spock makes a low rumbling noise that would be a chuckle coming from anyone else. "I shall send a wave to Starfleet to ensure such a tragedy will not occur on the Enterprise."

McCoy grins, pleased that Spock interprets bodily threats against the Captain to mean he's actually missed him. "Get out of here so Chapel can reset the controls. I'd rather not treat my current patients for heat stroke on top of their other ills."

He realizes upon his exit from Sick Bay that McCoy never once belittled his ears, his green blood, or made any effort to touch him. That he understands Spock's needs warms something inside him, and he has that twitchy feeling at the corners of his mouth again as he makes his way to his quarters.

*******

He emerges from his sonic shower feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. The high-powered sonic waves have removed the last of the moisture from his skin, and feeling dry for the first time in weeks makes him realize just how unsettling the constant damp has been. The overwhelming sense of dry heat programmed into his quarters seeps into him, relaxes his shoulders from the tense mess he hadn't been aware of until it was gone.

Changing into a threadbare green bathrobe (an article of clothing given to him by his mother, and only truly cherished after she was taken from him), he makes his way toward his bed. There's a data PADD set on his pillow, and the writing that appears in the screen is Vulcan, infused with a kind of warmth he didn't believe the language capable of until he taught it to Uhura. She's discovered a few pieces of Vulcan prose in the Starfleet archives, leaving it for him as a welcome back home.

There are other signs that people have been in his quarters, and the idea doesn't scrape at him the way it would have when he first accepted his position here. There's a cactus-like purple plant in a pot on his desk, accompanied by a note with Sulu's familiar jagged script. Next to it is a bottle of synthesized vodka - nowhere near as personal as the other two gifts, but it's Chekov's gift of choice to anyone who has to leave the ship for an extended period of time, and that he's brave enough to enter Spock's quarters to leave some for him says a great deal about his growth since being assigned here. Next to that is a fresh towel, which Scotty must have left here while Spock was still in the sonic shower.

He's never had this kind of reception before. He's never had a group of people get to know him so well that they know what he might want after an extended period of time away from them. They haven't arranged for a surprise party, haven't smothered him in affection and chatter and social gatherings. They've simply left their mark on his living space and let him readjust to them as needed.

That feeling of warmth lodges itself in his throat, and he swallows it back down with some difficulty. He has friends. It is perhaps his greatest accomplishment as First Officer.

His mind, though, is still reeling from the weeks of uninterrupted, unblockable emotion battering him during his stay on Kambria. He needs his controls back in place, needs that place of dark, embracing calm before he can feel like himself again. He arranges himself on the floor in front of his enormous bay window, settled comfortably in the cushions he's put there specifically for this purpose. He takes in the rare immobility of the stars for a moment before closing his eyes and letting his years of Vulcan training flow over him.

He tends first to the feeling of overstimulation, of too many hands on him projecting too many conflicting emotions. It's the most pressing need at the moment and the one that takes the longest to correct, remembering the worst of the encounters - the fingers, too-intimate on his ears, the uninvited embraces, the unfamiliar fingers reaching for his own, unaware of the meaning of the gesture to a Vulcan - and filing them away neatly. Unpleasant experiences, yes, but they are over now. He has returned to his crew - to his friends, he corrects himself - and he has no further concern with being unnecessarily manhandled.

This flows rather easily into the irrational feeling of isolation he has developed. He was rarely ever alone in the literal sense - in fact, the only time the Kambrians allowed him his privacy was when tending to personal hygeine and sleeping, and sometimes even those were intruded upon by someone or another wanting to look at the exotic Starfleet Officer with the pointy ears. He was surrounded by sentient beings at nearly every moment, and yet he felt completely alone wherever he went. There had been no Captain to instinctively understand when he needed to be left alone, no Jim to distract them so he could have a moment's respite from the culture shock. The PADD on his bed and the gifts on his desk remind him that this is no longer the case, that he is back with his little makeshift family.

And that, he understands with a start, is precisely what they have become to him. He has his father, of course, and their relationship has thankfully not been strained by his decision to remain with Starfleet rather than rebuilding on New Vulcan. But he has never truly belonged to a larger group of individuals, certainly not on Vulcan and never really with his colleagues at the Academy. Only here has he managed to feel accepted, understood, and genuinely liked for who he is.

That sudden sensation of warmth passes over him again, allowing him to forget the weeks of cold, miserable dampness and the tactile and emotional oppression by those who do not understand his nature. He returns to himself slowly, the dark calm soothing him as he opens his eyes.

Only to meet expressive blue. The Captain is seated in front of him, legs crossed in a sloppy mimicry of Spock's, dressed only in a pair of worn black pajama pants.

"Bones told me not to touch you if I could manage to restrain myself," Jim explains before Spock can say a word. "I should get a professional commendation of some sort for this. You have no idea how bad I wanted to just tackle you."

"It is unfortunate that Starfleet has ceased giving out gold stars to Captains who follow orders from their Chief Medical Officers," Spock returns solemnly, offering his hand with the palm facing upwards, a sign that Jim can touch him now despite the doctor's instructions.

He's graced with a sweet tingling sensation of Jim's fingers stroking over his own in the Vulcan version of a kiss. "Next time we're picking up a Starfleet issue diplomat and dumping them on the new planet. The ship just doesn't run the same without you."

"It was necessary to station a ranking Starfleet Officer on Kambria to assure them of the Federation's trust." Spock spreads his fingers under Jim's touch, reveling in the easy intimacy of it.

"Yeah, well, it's also necessary to ensure the officer's comfort on new planets rather than shoving a load of touchy-feely aliens on him and hoping for the best." Jim is visibly stopping himself from further contact, limiting himself to touching the one hand, trailing his fingers in between the knuckles on the back.

"They did no lasting damage," Spock assures him, repressing a low purr. He loves having his hands played with, and there's a certain kind of sensuality in Jim lavishing attention on them to the exclusion of the rest of his body.

The response is a curt nod, both of Jim's hands now wrapping around his own, the mindless exploration of his fingers focusing to a slow massage instead. "Do you have any idea how much we missed you?"

Again, that twitching sensation at his lips. "The doctor refrained from belittling me during his examination."

Jim laughs, pausing only to press a kiss in the center of Spock's palm. "Yeah, you know it's bad when he's not calling you a pointy eared bastard." He grins up at Spock. "You know that's just his way of showing affection, right? It's got the same meaning as when he calls me an idiot."

"I am beginning to translate the doctor's version of Standard with some measure of ease," Spock agrees, fingers twitching at the attention. A few hours ago he would have sworn he wouldn't be able to handle any kind of touch after enduring the Kambrians for so long, but Jim seems to be the exception to any rule he creates for himself.

Jim seems to understand that, too, letting go of his hand in favor of cradling his face instead, pulling him closer for the kind of kiss that tells him without words just how much he was missed. He submits to it willingly, that dark soothing calm enveloping him again, the mild headache melting quietly into the vague sense of another person connecting to his mind. The bond stretches between them for a moment before Spock makes the effortless reach for Jim's mind, fingers pressed to his temple in a familiar formation.

There's a low moan coming from one or both of them as they merge on this intimate level, the sensation of both surrounding and being surrounded by another consciousness. There's a smile pressed to Spock's lips as Jim pulls away gently, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the soft skin just behind his ears. "How the hell did you keep your composure with everyone touching you here?" he murmurs.

"It was ... most unsettling," Spock returns in between the hitching of his breathing, closing his eyes at the slow, relaxing feel of familiar fingers on him. "I am unused to having them touched in a more casual context."

He raises an eyebrow at that. "So you eventually got used to it?"

"I did not. I was simply able to repress my reaction after a few moments of meditation."

The raised eyebrow melts into a wicked grin, the pads of his thumbs tracing along the shell of Spock's ear all the way up to the gently curved point. "So you basically willed yourself not to get turned on by it?"

"A necessary defense mechanism." It's not a grammatically accurate sentence, but Spock is losing his ability to care about syntax when his ears are being attended to with such tenderness.

And here too, Jim understands what Spock isn't saying. There's a momentary shifting of clothing and limbs, the soft black pants tossed aside as Jim crawls into his lap, legs cradling his hips and thighs and an alien feeling of too-cold skin pressed up against his chest where the robe has opened and fallen off of him. The fingers continue their slow worship of Spock's ears, and he represses a low purr and tries hard not to squirm. "Jim..."

"I'm just ridding you of an unnecessary defense mechanism," Jim explains. It would sound clipped and logical and ... well, almost Vulcan, but Jim's voice has that low, breathy quality Spock loves, and his attempts to keep from squirming fail him. "No one on this ship touches your ears but me, and I know damn well how much you enjoy it."

And he does. He couldn't deny it if he wanted to, and why would he want to when he has the Captain sprawled over his lap focused solely on rendering him speechless and helpless through the stroking of his ears? He tries to formulate some kind of response to the words, but all he can manage is an attempt to pull Jim closer to his suddenly overheated skin, the sensation of being wet, cold, and miserable completely forgotten in the wake of the heat spreading through him.

And then there are lips pressing into the whorls of his ear, and Spock can't help the small keening noise that escapes him. He can't inspire himself to do anything more than dig his fingers into Jim's thighs, unraveling too quickly to even attempt some kind of reciprocation. His thought processes are further obliterated when Jim licks his way down to his earlobe and sucks on it teasingly, Spock's mouth dropping open in a long, desperate groan.

Jim is tormenting him, lips dragging over the shell of his ear, tongue darting inside to taste him, sucking faint green blushes into the sensitive skin just behind his ears. It's all driving him to an edge he doesn't sense until he's teetering there, launching over it with a heartfelt moan when Jim's teeth scrape over the point, the faint sensation of pain too much for him amidst all the pleasure.

He shudders again when Jim's lips travel along his jaw and over his face, kissing him sweetly through the last of the shivering. "Mmm," comes the low rumbling between them, Jim looking far too pleased with himself. "Didn't know you could come just from having your ears played with."

He hadn't been aware of that, either. Spock slumps toward him feeling boneless and cherished, his forehead pressed to Jim's and his eyes slowly cracking back open. "Mm," he returns inarticulately, relaxing the grip in his fingers and smoothing over the faint purple bruises he's clenched into Jim's thighs. There's a hard, insistent poking against his stomach, and he slips a hand between them to wrap around him.

Surprisingly, Jim's hand catches his wrist, seemingly stopping him. "You don't have to, t'hy'la," he says quietly, the endearment coming as naturally to him as breathing. "Bones told me you'd probably be oversensitive to touch."

He raises a doubtful eyebrow at him. "Which is why you broke into my quarters while I was meditating and proceeded to initiate a sexual encounter."

He doesn't look the least bit sorry, the almost apologetic shrug nullified by the smug grin on his face. "I missed you," is his only explanation for ignoring the doctor's advice.

Not that Spock is complaining, stroking a thumb along the hardness in his hand. "As I missed you, t'hy'la," he returns the endearment, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Let me show you."

Jim offers little resistance.

******

Many hours later, Spock slowly emerges into wakefulness. He's cocooned in a tangle of Jim's arms and legs, warm puffs of breath whispering a slow, even pattern on the back of his neck as Jim sleeps. There's cool human flesh pressed up everywhere against his back and sweet desert heat pressed against him everywhere else. It is silent in the room aside from the predictable pattern of breathing and the low hum of the ship, all of it white noise that Spock equates to silence due to its familiarity.

In a few hours he will get up, dress himself, perhaps scan through the PADD Uhura has left him before making his way to the bridge. He'll be surrounded by a series of warm human smiles, perhaps be welcomed back to his station by affectionate hands on his shoulders and illogical human emotion. He'll correct Chekov's warbling mispronunciations. He'll ask Sulu to correct their course. He'll raise an eyebrow and pretend to ignore the lascivious looks the Captain will undoubtedly shoot his way for the duration of their shift, perhaps send an apologetic glance of his own towards the doctor should he happen to be there and happen to make that awful face he unerringly makes whenever Jim so much as hints toward his more intimate relationship with his First Officer. This will be his day, his routine, his home.

His family.


End file.
